“And his first wife?”
Camille reflected on that, then gave an eloquent one-shouldered shrug. “But Heather is a good person, too. I worked with her when she first came to town. I was happy when she and Micah got together. It was the right thing for both of them.”
Up to that point, Griffin had assumed that if Heather confided in anyone, it would be in Micah, or in Poppy or Cassie. It struck him now that he might have been wrong. “Are you close to Heather?”
Camille smiled. “We’re good friends.”
“Do you know about her past?”
“She doesn’t talk about that.”
“Were you surprised when all this happened?”
“Very. We didn’t expect it. Micah certainly didn’t. Now he feels somuch pressure. If I can lighten that any by helping you find something to help Heather, I want to do it. Will you let me know?”
Griffin nodded.
“Thank you,” she said and went off as quietly as she had come.
* * *
Poppy kept a nonchalant eye on the door, and was relieved when Griffin finally appeared. She wanted him there for the main event, didn’t want him missing a single song. If they were a pair in loving this, she wanted him beside her through it all.Flashing her an eager smile, he slipped into his chair just as the violin, viola, cello, and bass finished warming up. Then the fun began. Songs like “Yesterday,” “Norwegian Wood,” and “Strawberry Fields Forever” seemed made for strings, and this group played them well.
Poppy lost herself in the music. When they moved on to faster songs—“Here Comes the Sun,” “Eight Days a Week,” and “All You Need Is Love”—she kept time with a hand on the arm of her chair. And how not to sing along with the chorus of “Yellow Submarine”? She exchanged grins with Griffin any number of times, pleased to see him as involved as she was.
At the end of the first set, the quartet took a break, and chocolate chip cookies came around, warm, gooey, and sweet. Cassie and Mark went off to visit on the other side of the room, and the empty chairs must have been too much of a lure—that, or the townsfolk were feeling mellow, or they were just too curious to resist—because people started coming by to talk with Griffin.
Poppy wasn’t surprised by the first of the questions. They reflected the ones she’d been getting on the phone. In a matter of days, Heather had gone from being wrongly accused, to being curiously silent, to being Lisa.
“Will she have to go back to California?” asked Amy Kreuger, who had gone to college in Santa Barbara before returning to run the family’s poultry farm.
“Will she serve time?” asked Leila Higgins, who relied on Heather’s presence at the library and wanted her back.
“Any chance she can beat it?” asked Charlie Owens’ oldest son, Seth.
Then the discussion took a subtle shift, and the group around Poppy and Griffin grew, talking among themselves as much as to Poppy and Griffin. It was particularly true when Allison Quimby, head of the local realty office, got going with Anna Winslow, head of the textile mill.
“Heather’s been nothing but honest and hardworking since she came here,” Anna said. “We all think that.”
“Not think it,” Allison amended. “Know it. We each have our Heather stories. She’s gone out of her way to help all of us at one time or another.”
“Do you think she did that deliberately?” Anna asked. “Was she making up for what she did back in California?”
Allison waved an impatient hand. “I don’t care what she did there.”
“That boy’s family does.”
“But what about now? She’s a different person. She’s been living an upstanding life for fourteen years.”
“A model life for fourteen years,” Anna insisted. “So does a woman get credit for having reformed?”
“If you ask me,” Allison put in archly, “the crime would be wasting taxpayers’ money to lock her up, when she’s become a productive citizen. Is she a danger to society? I think not.”
Poppy knew not. Heather was everything good that they’d said—and yes, it ought to count for something. She had often wondered that about her own life, wondered whether the kind of responsible person she had been since the accident counted for something. She wanted to believe it did. She was more generous, more patient, more thoughtful. Was this a change in her basic nature, or simply a reaction to an accident? It didn’t matter, she realized. The end result was the same. And for Heather, too. Poppy wondered whether the authorities in California would consider that.
She was about to ask Cassie’s opinion, when the music started again. The tunes were more mellow now. “The Fool on the Hill” segued into “Eleanor Rigby,” which segued into “Hey Jude.” By popular demand, as so often happened in the Back Room, Lily was shouted up to the stage. She sang “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “Yesterday.” When, despite raucous applause and Poppy’s own wolf whistle, she refused to do another, the quartet launched into the more upbeat “Hello Goodbye” andseveral couples began to dance in the perimeter of the room. Others followed them during “Here Comes the Sun,” with even more of the audience singing along.
Poppy sang. So did Griffin. When he caught her eye, though, she wasn’t thinking about singing. She was remembering the way they had danced the night before. His look said he was game.
But she couldn’t do it. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Once upon a time, she would have been front and center, leading the pack, dancing with whomever could keep up, but she couldn’t do it now. She was different now. She couldn’t escape that fact.
There was something else, though—something that was larger in her mind the longer Griffin held her gaze. What they had done together was private. It was sensual and arousing. She wanted to do it again. Very much. But not here.
The show ended with a prolonged version of “Let It Be,” and a particularly strong rendition it was. Before the song was halfway done, the better part of the audience was on its feet, swaying. By the time the last note had sounded, the applause was deafening.
Poppy applauded. So did Griffin. They waved to those who left first, said their own goodbyes, and went out to the Blazer. They didn’t say much as Poppy drove home, and when they got there, he asked simply, “Can I come in?”
She was terrified. But she couldn’t have kept him out if her life had depended on it.
He must have sensed her apprehension and known where they were headed, because by the time he came to her side to help her out, he said, “Let’s go down to the lake first.”
She didn’t ask how she would get there. Having danced with Griffin, she understood the mechanics. “It’ll be cold,” she warned, but she figured that the cold was the point. There had been heat in that car, far beyond what the Blazer produced. He was slowing things down. She was grateful for that.
Reaching in, he tied her scarf around the collar of her jacket, then zipped his own and pulled on his earband. She pulled on gloves. Hepulled on gloves. Then he picked her up and carried her through the snow down to the lake.
It wasn’t a smooth trip. The daytime sun had softened the snow, but the chill in the air now had refrozen the surface, so that with each step, his boot stayed flat for a second or two, then broke through and sank.
Poppy didn’t complain. She hadn’t been out on the lakeshore at night since the first snow of the season had come. “Any other season,” she said, “and I do this by myself. There’s a dock and a system of ramps. I wheel myself down into the water, slip out of my chair, and swim off.”
“I bet you love doing that.”
“I love doing that.”
“I bet you’re a good swimmer.”
“I’m a good swimmer.”
They reached the edge of the lake. Without shelter here, there was a light breeze. The moon peered through gnarled fingers of clouds, but, even at its dimmest, cast enough light for him to see. “Want to go out a little?”
She nodded vigorously. “You have to go down over some rocks. Here. That’s it.�
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He took the rocks like the pro he’d apparently become since staying on Little Bear, and once he was on the lake, the walking was easier. “I guess you’d have to be a good swimmer, growing up on a lake like this,” he remarked.
“Do you swim?”
“Sure do.”
“Where’d you learn?”
His mouth twitched. “At a club.” He looked at her as he walked. “I’d apologize for that, except it was a really nice club. Dining room, grill room, golf course, tennis courts, two swimming pools—”
“Two?”
“One for Pampers, one for Speedos.”
She grinned. “I can’t picture you in a Speedo.”
He stopped walking. “I was really fast. I used to swim for the team there. Haven’t done that in a while.”
“Did you like it?”
“Loved it,” he said and met her gaze.
“I feel free in the water. My upper body compensates for what my lower body can’t do.”
“I’m surprised you don’t go south for the winter so that you can swim year-round.”
“Like the loons?” she asked.
“Like the loons. When’ll they be back?”
“In April. Within hours of ice-out. It’s uncanny, really. Ice-out itself is something to see. For days you watch the ice getting thinner and thinner, until it’s black. Then it gets porous, and, within hours it seems, it just breaks up and goes away. The loons land—I’m telling you—within hours of that.”
“How do they know?”
“They scout. The males come first—leave the ocean and fly north as soon as some inner voice tells them the seasons are changing. They must come right up the coast, then turn inland and fly reconnaissance missions. They can’t land unless there’s open water, because they need open water to find fish and to take off again. If they were to land on ice, not only would they not have food, but they’d be stuck there until it melted. The first time you hear them in spring . . .” She felt a sudden yearning for that. “It’s so nice.” She looked up at the sky. “So is this.”
The moon was behind one of those fingers of clouds, but that didn’t take anything from the charm of the night. There were stars; with a slow scan of the sky, she took them in. Yes, it was cold, but she was sheltered against Griffin. Besides, the cold was half the fun.
“Another week,” she mused, “and the moon will be full. This time of year, it’s the maple moon. Sugar moon, is what Native Americans called it. Do you know that they were the first sugarmakers?”
“Micah told me that,” Griffin said with a grin. “And about sugarmaking being done without slaves.”
“Did I tell you about sugar on snow?”
His grin didn’t budge. “I don’t believe you did.”
“If you take hot, new syrup and drizzle it on snow, it hardens into chewy strings. We make a party of it during sugaring. Chewy syrup, raised donuts, and a sour pickle. One taste works off the other to enhanceall three.” Smiling, she tucked her nose in the warm spot just below his ear.
“Cold?”
She shook her head. “Can’t feel my toes, though,” she joked.
“Well, then.” He didn’t miss a beat. “We’ll have to do something about that.”
He started back across the lake. She left her nose where it was. He smelled of her aloe soap. She had always thought it had a light, female freshness. It was still light and fresh, but on him, it was masculine.
Climbing up over the rocks from lake to land, he began the short trek to the house. Poppy moved her nose up to the very edge of his earband, and pressed a kiss where her nose had been. Even outside, with the breeze stirring up a rustle of evergreen limbs, she heard the catch of his breath. She put her tongue to the very same spot, which was behind the shadow of his beard. The skin was surprisingly smooth.
He didn’t say a word. That was a challenge, and Poppy knew about challenges. Meeting them had been her specialty before the accident. What she felt like doing, she did. What she wanted, she took. What tempted her, she chased.
With her chair still in the Blazer and Griffin heading for the steps, it was easy to forget the twelve years between then and now. It was like she was able to walk but chose not to—and whyever should she, with a gorgeous guy carrying her off in his arms?
He went in the door, kicked it shut behind him, and carried her down the hall to her bedroom. She was too absorbed nuzzling his jaw to protest, and when she had to stop, simply because in laying her on the bed their bodies came apart, she was equally absorbed by his eyes.
She hadn’t seen a hunger like that in more than a dozen years. She hadn’t expected to see it again at all, but there it was. If there were inklings of fear in the back of her mind, that hunger held them at bay. He pulled off her gloves, untied her scarf, and unzipped her jacket, and all the while his eyes held that hunger. His cheeks were ruddy, his breathing unsteady. Tossing his own gloves aside, he quickly followed with his earband and jacket. Then he crossed his arms, reached for the hem of his sweater, and whipped it off right along with the shirt underneath.
Poppy wasn’t prepared for that. She felt a jolt and, quite helplessly, put a hand out. She had never seen his bare chest, much less felt it. It was warm and perfectly shaped, with a smattering of auburn hair in the shape of a T. Fingers spread, she slid her palm over lean muscle and ribs.
He drew in a sharp breath. She looked up quickly, half fearing that he was done, turned off, wanting out—because she was, after all, a paraplegic, and little touches notwithstanding, she didn’t know how far she could go, didn’t know how far he could go.
A little farther, he seemed to say, because he took her mouth then with the same hunger she had seen in his eyes, and how could she not answer it? She definitely felt the hunger. She hadn’t been sure that she would. Technically, her sexual organs functioned; she had known that. But sex wasn’t just a physical thing. Thanks to her disability, it was wrapped up in a mess of emotional issues. Not wanting to deal with those, she had always before chosen to ignore the possibilities.
But those possibilities were suddenly heady. She felt a tingling, and could have sworn it was in her lower body as well. The brain was able to compensate that way, receiving a message from one place and assigning it to another. She hoped that this wasn’t compensation alone. It certainly felt real.
His mouth stroked hers, again and again, deepening the kiss slowly, steadily, until it was very mutual, very open, very intimate—little more than the exchange of a breath or the touch of a tongue. It was unbelievably arousing. Poppy arched her back—so nice to be able to do that—and suddenly he had her sweater up.
“Lift, baby,” he whispered, and when the sweater went over her head and she wore only her bra, he took that off as well.
He looked. He touched. She had never felt overly endowed, certainly not compared to her sisters. When she had done this before the accident, breasts had always been incidental. She had never seen them as crucial to her identity, because femininity itself had never been a major issue. Sex was sex—she was a girl, the guy was a guy—girls and guys did it together—it was fun. It was also naughty, because it was not what her mother wanted her to do, and that increased the fun.
So this was new. Griffin’s mouth made her breasts feel feminine indeed.Not only did they swell and peak, but the ripples of heat that he caused traveled deep, so deep that she would have writhed had she had the mobility.
That thought was brief. She must have done something, though—taken a sudden breath, pulled back a tad, something —because Griffin raised his head.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
By way of answer, she took his face and brought it down. She initiated the kiss this time, and drove it deeper, because that was one way to stave off scary little thoughts. She loved the feel of his jaw, which was just the least bit stubbly now, several hours after a shave. She loved the thickness of his wavy hair, loved the strength of his neck, loved the way his muscles bunched—back, shoulders, chest—w
hen she touched them.Needing to feel his belly, she pushed her fingers down under the waist band of his jeans.
When he made a choked sound, she stopped short.
“Don’t,” he said hoarsely.
Horrified, she pulled her hands up and away.
“Don’t stop,” he pleaded, but the words seemed forced, or so her appalled mind heard.
She tucked her hands under the pillows—lots of pillows—more pillows than a normal person would have—pillows that a paraplegic needed to hold one position or another.
He slid to his side and drew her over to face him. He did it gently, pulling one of those pillows to support her back. His breathing was rough, but he seemed in full control.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” But she did. Of course she did.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“But you stopped.”
“Because you did. You made a sound, like more was happening than you wanted.”
He took her chin. “That sound was because not enough was happening.”
Tears welled. “I know. I can’t do more. I’m sorry. I can’t help what I am.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he scolded, moving his thumb to her mouth. “Not enough was happening, because we were just getting going, and I’m impatient. I wanted it faster, that’s all, faster, but that’s me being a man and has nothing to do with anything except your being a woman and turning me on.” He paused. “What are you?” His hand was at her nape now.
“A paraplegic.”
“Could’ve fooled me. I didn’t feel anything disabled about what we were doing. It felt like you were enjoying yourself.”
“I was until something . . . reminded you.”
“You’re the one who was reminded. What did it?”
You groaned. Or choked. Or whatever. You’d had enough.
“Tell me, Poppy. Did I do something wrong? Did something not feel good? Not feel right? Did something not feel—not feel —at all?”
“I felt,” she confessed, because she could be truthful in this. “I felt like a woman. I haven’t felt that way in so long.”
An Accidental Woman Page 26
